


The Wild Swans

by igraine1419



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A locked door and a key lead Sam into the very heart of the smial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wild Swans

The snows had been foretold. Since morning, the skies had been slowly gathering a mass of clouds, which had swelled, darker and darker, as the day progressed to an early dusk. Walking up the hill, under the shadow of the impending snow, Sam watched the clouds rolling overhead, unveiling a horizon the colour of a split pomegranate. 

Reaching the little green gate, he turned and looked back down at the lights on the hill, bobbing like lanterns along the darkening road, beckoning him home, warning him of the danger in the beauty of this winter’s eve. Holding out his hand, palm upwards, he waited patiently for the first snowflake to settle there, a cold kiss cradled in his hand. Gazing, he marvelled at its myriad perfection, wondering how a thing of such intricate beauty could be made from rain and cloud. 

Wrapping his dark red woollen cloak around himself more tightly, Sam turned to face the quiet smial, shrouded in its cloak of green, speckled with white. Lightless, the many windows looked at him with a solemn challenge in their dark faces, keeping their secrets close. Above, the old oak tree spread, staggering and dark, its long gnarled limbs outflung. 

Why, of all the nights in the year, had Mr Frodo chosen this one in which to journey back from Buckland? A night when any hobbit with an ounce of care for his soul would be hurrying home and bolting fast the door, for fear of what was to pass. Sam felt uneasy to be out - when usually he would be sensing the approaching dusk running at his heels every step of the way home, pushing him through the door with urgent whispers. Childhood fears could be dispelled with warm spiced bread and honey and the merry seasonal songs, drowning out the sound of thundering horses. The latch would click into place and none would leave until the last star dimmed in the sky and the sun rose pale over the distant trees. The sky would be left unmarked by the raging of the Hunt where it had fled, hurtling through the banking cloud, trailing behind the countless, hungry souls of the dead - their empty eyes hungrily devouring the sight of the world they loved but could no longer possess.

Tonight his journey was all back to front and instead of travelling out of danger, it seemed he was plunging into it. 

Looking up at the empty, rose-flushed sky, streaked now with dark night clouds, Sam’s ears hearkened for the chill sound of bells on the still air; but were met with a piercing silence, which settled deep within him. Down in the fields, the shepherds were bringing in the flocks; he could hear their harsh bleats as they skittered down the hill into the fold, and the last of the workers turned home to warm fire and dinner. There had been warnings of ice on the roads and snows deep enough to bury a hobbit right up to his ears. Taking heed, most had been replenishing their wood stores and the careful lasses had been baking and bottling enough to last a family through Yule, if needs must. From below, long ribbons of cook smoke twined high into the air-so many they seemed to be lacing together like the ribbons on a Lithe pole.

The road was already glittering as if with starlight, treacherous and beautiful, and Sam’s heart twisted with fear. 

Mr Frodo had been determined to return before Yule, ignoring even Mr Merry’s urgent entreaties, laying his hand on his shoulder and speaking quiet and gentle to him of the simple Yule he had planned - working his way through the part of Mr Bilbo’s library which had, as yet, evaded him, and perhaps venturing into the furthest recesses of the Bag End wine cellar. He would visit at Foreyule and then return before the festivities began. His mind was set and Mr Frodo, who could be alarmingly stubborn at times, was unmoved by Mr Merry and his sulks and frets and merciless tickling.

Sam had wondered at his master’s desire to spend Yule alone. Bag End seemed very big and empty on these long winter’s nights, and Sam was always quick down the long corridors, for they seemed secretive and sly as if they had woken from a long sleep and were hungry for mischief. Remembering his master’s solemn resolve, and the glimmering in his eyes, Sam knew with a deep and unshakeable certainty, that Mr Frodo would come thundering down the dark and icy road, come wildness or weather. 

~~~

Sam had approached his Gaffer after work, worry eating him away when he remembered his master’s plans. But his dad had been little concerned.

“If the weather ain’t fit, he’ll stay put. He ain’t no fool, son, he won’t turn out in the snow.” Gaffer Gamgee had taken another puff on his pipe and his eyes had narrowed down to slits of rain-washed grey, brooking no more fuss and bother - for he enjoyed a quiet smoke of an evening and had little care for anything, when the warm smoke was rocking him to sleep.

His sisters had been up to their elbows in the Yule pudding, each taking turns to throw in a handful of fruit or spice, and stir three times, pushing the wooden spoon through the thickly resisting batter and licking their fingers. A bubbling pan of apples was set upon the stove, filling the room with their autumn sweetness, as they slowly turned to soft white pulp and rose to scum the surface of the fiercely boiling water. 

“I won’t be long,” he said, walking over to remove the pan from the heat, and breathing in a fragrant breath of steam.

“But you can’t go - we haven’t even made our wishes yet!” Daisy complained, frowning at the effort of pushing the spoon.

May slammed bread dough into two tins where it swelled pale and sheened with moisture. “He ain’t going nowhere - are you brother?” she said firmly, pushing the tins into the oven. “There’s no need, for he won’t be back tonight.”

“Not with the roads being bad,” added Mari, taking the spoon from Daisy and stirring briskly and efficiently. 

Sam had taken the red cloak from the peg and clasped it around his neck. 

“Why, I’d quite forgotten that old thing!” Daisy laughed, walking up to Sam and spinning him round in her arms. “It’s a fair shade of red, dark as holly berries, bit tatty though…”

“It’s warm,” Sam replied, feeling the thick wool enclosing him, enough to stifle him in the oven-hot smial. “I like it.”

“Well, you won’t be needing it tonight,” Mari said, approaching her brother and throwing her arms around his neck, walking with him, staggering and tripping over each other’s feet until Sam landed with a soft thud in the chair near the hearthside. Mari attempted to unclasp the cloak, but Sam laid his hand over hers and shook his head. 

“I said I’d go up and see to the smial and so I shall,” he said, softly with a quiet determination. 

“Sam…” Mari sighed and Sam could see his other sisters cleaving together suddenly like two clouds merging and banking in the sky. “We know how much you care for your job an’ we know you always like to do your best-well, more than that sometimes, because you’re a good, kind soul, and would think nothin’ for yourself if there was some duty to be done for another. And Mr Frodo, well, he’s a fair master, an’ all, but there’s no need for you to be goin’ putting yourself into danger for ‘im…

“Mari…”

“You may think us foolish, Sam,” she interrupted, sitting down at her brother’s feet and staring up into his face with open hazel eyes that sought to tie him to his chair. “But no-one would set foot in that place alone on such a night as this when the need is not pressing. Have you never wondered what lies secret up there? All those dark corridors and too many mirrors, lyin’ in wait to eat up your soul. Look at Mr Bilbo and Mr Frodo, now-have you never wondered why they seem to get no older? I don’t speak of it and nor does anyone else, but you must’ve thought of it yourself, Sam?”

Sam shook his head. “I’ve never heard such nonsense, Mari!” he muttered, feeling a shiver of disquiet running over his skin. “And don’t let dad catch you talking that way, neither!” 

“Besides, we want you here,” Daisy said, coming over to stand beside her sister. “It won’t be the same without you.”

“We haven’t even made our wishes yet!” May said, letting the spoon fall. “Stay here in the warm.”

Sam looked to the pudding bowl on the table, and imagined each of their wishes falling into it and baking deep in the sticky centre, to be gouged out and consumed, one by one, taking flight. He thought of his own wish and decided it best that it remain rooted and silent rather than enter the possibility of transformation. Such wishes were not fit for puddings nor the innocent mouths of his sisters.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Sam stated firmly, making to rise. 

“But it’s the night ‘fore Yule, Sam. You can’t!” Mari begged. “It ain’t done!”

“Well, I’m doin’ it,” Sam said, pulling up his wide hood and taking the basket from the table. Before the warm scent of baking and the pleading love in his sister’s eyes should melt his resolve, he unlatched the door onto the cold dusk. Turning around, he said softly, “I’ll soon be back.”

~~~

 

Sam’s heart tugged painfully, for there was a thorn buried deep and swelling, that no reason would remove. Brushing his hand absently against the fading petals of a white rose, hanging on a black stem, as thin and empty now as the lacing of snow that patterned it, he happened to graze his finger on a twisted thorn. Putting his finger to his mouth, he plucked the old bloom, the tattered petals drifting to the ground, save one that bore a mark as red as a robin’s breast. So striking was the contrast between the white and the red, Sam stared a moment and dwelled on it, watching as the red nearly consumed the white until all that was left was a border, like the lace around a lover’s heart. Holding the petal out against the black sky, he was struck by the contrast between the three and the testament they bore to his master’s beauty, laid there so plain before his eyes; he was almost moved to tears. 

He let the petal fall from his hand and settle, a curl of crimson upon the pure white snow, and turned towards the darkening hill, already half lost under the drifting snow and transforming as he watched, into another place entirely.

~~~

It felt like an intrusion, putting the key to the lock and turning it in the icy keyhole, hearing the cold latch clicking open. One darkness was replaced by another, deeper dark, that swallowed him whole. 

Fumbling on the hall table, he located the lamp and lit it from the tinderbox. The golden lamplight filled the hall with shadows that flitted down the empty corridor. All was silent, but for the ticking of the clock and the howling of the wind in the chimneys. It seemed strange to be walking here alone, in this darkest of days, his heart filled with fear for his master, his sisters' superstitions weighing on his mind as he passed mirrors filled with dark, reflecting flame and the whites of his own eyes. 

Walking through the empty rooms, he drew the curtains one by one, sensing the strangeness of the quiet, watchful walls as he passed each open door. When he was a child, he had longed to have the run of the smial, to explore and uncover it's secrets, turning corners, unlocking doors - finding the treasures he knew lay hidden deep within the heart of it. He had sometimes dreamed that he lived here and lay in a soft wide bed under the old roots and beams, sensing the age and the mysteries lulling him into deep and fathomless dreams, moving beneath the sea or in the heart of a mountain. 

Walking through into the kitchen, he laid the basket down upon the table, taking out the contents one by one and setting the table with care. When he had finished, he lit the stove and the hearth fires, heaping on logs that would burn slow and long. They crackled and hissed with the wind and the snow blowing down the chimney, but soon caught to flame and began to smoulder noisily, throwing out great plumes of smoke. Sam looked at the table and the dinner laid upon it and felt a warm satisfaction for the small pleasures he could offer his master. 

There were so many more opportunities these days, and Sam found delight in each - gardening, cooking, mending, restoring… 

Just two weeks ago, he had sewn up a rent in Mr Frodo’s white shirt, which had slid and slipped in his hands like a live thing as he speared it with his darting silver needle, holding the tear up to the lamp, the fabric so delicate and fine, the light could swim right through it. 

Mr Merry was sitting by the fire, tapping his feet on the fender in an impatient rhythm and Mr Frodo was sitting beside him, stroking Mr Merry’s hair, but watching Sam with a smile. 

When Sam had finished he held it out nervously, and Mr Frodo rose and slipped off his shirt to replace it with the living silk, causing Sam to turn his eyes away in haste. Mr Merry had jumped to his feet, eager to be off, but Mr Frodo had simply stood and ran his hands over his chest carefully, searching for the tear. 

“My, Sam, this is wonderful! I can’t even feel it!” Frodo cried, amazed.

“It’s there all right, just by your left shoulder,” Sam said, walking up and placing his fingers against the place, sensing Frodo’s breath leaping a little in his throat. “There,” he said. 

And for an instant their eyes had locked and sunk infinitely deep. 

“Ready, cousin?” Merry had shouted, and Frodo had slowly, almost reluctantly, wished Sam a good night, his eyes lingering on his Gardener’s face a moment, before turning and chasing his flighty cousin down the hall and out of the open door. They dived into the dark, arm in arm, like two wild swans taking to the air, and Sam had stood in the doorway and watched until they disappeared into the darkness, his heart seared with a longing that could not be expressed.  
~~~

Sitting down at the table, Sam fancied that by inhabiting his chair, he might someone slink into his master’s ghost and shuffle it on like a second skin, as once he would flick through the books that Frodo would leave behind. There was magic in them, that was certain, but he wasn’t sure how it might be invoked. There was magic in his master, too - a gentle magic, of which he was unaware, but carried with him as easy as his own shadow. 

Sam looked down at the food he has prepared with such care - small morsels of this and that - little pleasures. Sweet cinnamon rolls, apples baked and wrapped in bags of spices, cold meats and soft cheese, a jug of cream, a jar of dark honey. 

If he should taste these things, he reasoned, it would be as if he were taking them into his master’s mouth and, therefore, it was no subordination. So he took a little of each, letting them lie long on his tongue, tasting every flavour, rich or subtle, before swallowing. Closing his eyes, he forgot himself entirely, sensing Frodo’s delight through his own lips and smiling softly as he chewed. When he had tasted everything, he poured himself a glass of yellow elderflower wine and felt the sweetness and the tiny bubbles bursting like little fireworks on the tip of his tongue - drowsy and warm and full of the joy of summer. 

Pushing back the chair, he moved towards the hearth and sat down in the wide chair, settling into his master’s shape, resting his head against soft velvet. Shifting a little, awkwardly, he remembered the keys that still lay bunched in his pocket. Unclasping his cloak, he laid it aside, before pushing his hand into his tight breeches and recovering the bunch of keys that glimmered silver in the firelight, clicking and chiming together softly, like bells. One by one, he pushed them over the ring, listening to them sing and speaking to himself the name of each and every room, cupboard or store that they belonged to. He knew them all by shape and feel and weight, all open, familiar spaces that had so recently revealed themselves to him. He smiled; there was Mr Frodo’s bedchamber, there his study, there the little trunk where he kept the important deeds. All were accounted for until he came to the last - so small and dainty and carved with such intricate and bewildering skill - only his master’s hands were clever and quick enough to turn such a lock. This key was strange to him and it held a fascination that he could not deny, and he turned it over and over in his hands, as if his skin could not get enough of the feel of the cold engraving that seemed to enliven under his touch. 

“Who are you?” he whispered, running his thumb over it again and again. Roaming through the smial in his mind, he tried to locate the room to which it belonged, but couldn’t place it, no matter how hard he tried. Puzzled, he stood up and, still stroking rhythmically, he paced in front of the fire, suddenly restless. He was quite certain he knew all the doors in the smial. He had roamed here since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, and there wasn’t a corner of the smial that had escaped his curiosity, right down to the deepest cellar where the roots dangled through the walls like a living tapestry. He had looked at these keys so many times and never had he seen this particular one - its beauty boring an imprint into his skin. 

It seemed to be singing his name softly to itself. It begged to open up its secrets. It wouldn’t let him go.

 _Here…_ It said… _This way…_

~~~

Sam followed. He hardly heard the roaring of the wind in the chimneys, nor paid much mind to the snow pattering on the windows. All he could hear were the duelling rhythms of the key and his own heartbeat - pounding hard and fast together - a pull as thick and deep as blood. 

Dark corridors wound away before him, lined with oil paintings thick and indecipherable in the gloom and mirrors were brought to sudden life against the flood of light from the waving flame he carried. Feeling himself invisible, he half expected to see his master reflected within but was surprised to see himself, looking bewitched and so different; he paused a moment and dared to look within. If his soul should be stolen away and locked up in the glass, so be it - for it belonged here and here he would wish it to stay. 

_Walk on…_

Suddenly turning a corner, Sam found himself in a quarter of the smial he didn’t know so well. He recognised the doors to left and right, which led down to the old wood store and the laundry room that was no longer in use, but he didn’t recall what lay beyond. Irresistibly drawn onwards, he walked further, the passage narrowing and dropping down a level, steeply falling until it culminated at a heavy brocade curtain that seemed flung across the wall to keep out the encroaching cold bank of earth. As Sam put his hand to it and pulled it aside, he discovered behind, not the anticipated wall of wood, but a door, small and low, set into the bank and heavily carved. He stared at the ornate keyhole and then looked down at the key in his hand and both cried together as if in recognition, as he inserted the key and twisted his hand. 

~~~

The horse’s hooves skidded on the road and Frodo had to tug his reigns in hard to keep her from flying. The ice and the snow and the wildness of the night were making her nervous - the very air seemed full of chaos and disturbance, and Frodo knew that he was taking great and unnatural risks in venturing out this night, flying in the face of those who had sought to keep him at Buckland. Merry had been angry and vowed to pursue him in haste, but Frodo had slipped from sight even before he could organise a groom and Frodo knew that Merry would not dare to ride this night, not even for his favourite cousin. Merry was wild, but not as wild as Frodo, for he had no fear of supernatural things. Indeed, some said he courted them. Even the Old Forest would release him unharmed. Truly, it seemed there was a spell woven around him that would keep him from harm, no matter how far from home he ventured. 

He looked up to the sky and felt the immense weight of the darkness pricked with distant stars and drifting, lost snowflakes slowly finding ground. He breathed in the ice and the thrill of the dark, and he longed to hear those bells ringing that he might laugh with the dead and give them chase, finding their blessings lying scattered at his feet. The folk who feared the dead forgot the blessings that flew from the wounded chariot, covering the cowering earth, challenging those who would look and dare to understand. Frodo had many fears, but he didn’t fear this - he had no fear of the rent in the sky. In a corner of his heart every year, when those others crouched hidden behind the curtains, he would sit at a window and look out, hoping against hope that he might catch a glimpse of those dear lost ones that he sought. Never had he seen a thing, of course, only antagonised his friends and parcelled his hopes away and tied them up with ribbons, hard enough to choke the life out of them, but still he watched and waited. 

But not tonight; this night he would not look away, nor stifle his dreams and longings. No, he would open them up, one by one, until they lay before him, bare and aching.

Thundering over the bridge, he looked down at the stars in the icy water and laughed to see so much beauty drowned deep under the black weeds. All the smials he passed were shuttered up, and firelight seeped from between the slats and lay in bars across the road. Moving slowly between them, he wondered if the hobbits heard him from within and laughed, screaming and covering their eyes. 

Old superstitions were nothing, after all, but an excuse to feel afraid. 

Trotting up the hill, the horse seemed to smell home, for she hastened her steps and soon brought him to the gate, puffing white breaths of steam. Frodo slid from the saddle and led her into the stables, settling her with food and blankets and praising her as she quieted under his hand and sank down gratefully into the warm straw. 

~~~

Frodo hesitated a moment on entering the smial, for there was a curious feeling in the air, as if the whole of Bag End was waiting to exhale. The lamp on the hall table was lit and the air was warm with the burning of many fires. Frodo smiled, stripping off his wet cloak; Sam had remembered. 

Walking down the passage, he turned into the kitchen and stopped to stare at the small feast laid out for him. Moving closer to inspect the good things on offer, he noticed a few crumbs littering the plate and the dregs of wine lying in the bottom of the glass. Frowning a little, he turned to throw off his travelling coat, wet through and sodden as it was, and laid it over the chair set before the fire. As he did so, he noticed a rumpled pile of red wool lying on the seat. Shaking it out, he held it up and imagined how well the scarlet would look against golden hair. Smiling, he pressed it to his face and inhaled, breathing in the scents of wood and wool and flowers. 

_Sam…_

Suddenly, the room seemed to swell with his presence and Frodo’s heart leaped and then died down to a dull racing which made his body thrum and his head swim. 

_He is still here…_

Frodo stood for a moment, biting his lip, and dared not follow where his feet would lead. 

_Yes,_ they say, _there…_

~~~

Standing at the door, Frodo willed his hand to turn the door handle, hardly daring to look within. Even though this riddle was of his own making, he was still uncertain of the resolution and he chilled to think that he might have made a mistake. Shivering in his dove-white shirt, Frodo turned the handle and bowed his head as he walked through the doorway.

_Sam._

_Sam sitting in the middle of a heap of pillows and holding in his hands a book he cannot tear his eyes away from._

_Sam, surrounded by crimson and gold and candles throwing arching shadows, which shelter and conceal._

_Sam, his clothes in disarray as he bites on his own hand._

“Sam…”

Sam looks up in surprise and alarm and, instinctively, he makes to rise, but Frodo holds out his hand to stay him and walks across the room, kneeling down on the soft carpets, his eyes straying to the book in Sam’s hands. 

“Shall I close it?” Frodo says, quietly, his fingers reaching for the scarlet binding.

Sam spins his face towards Frodo, his eyes glimmering, full of tears. “No!” he says fiercely. “No, don’t, it’s beautiful!”

“Beautiful,” Frodo repeats, softly. “Beautiful” It is as if he has never perceived the true meaning of the word before. 

Sam turns back to the open pages and reads once more. “I am reading this right, ain’t I, Mr Frodo?” he says after a short pause, his lips forming curving elvish syllables and mouthing them over and over as if he can’t get enough of the taste of those rich and ardent phrases that pulse around his tongue. 

“How long?” Sam whispers, turning the page and finding a finely rendered sketch of his own face upon the page, deep in thought and strangely melancholy, smudged with dark circles of radiating shadow as if sadness were worked into it. 

Frodo looked down, “I can hardly remember, Sam. So long…” 

Trembling, he wrapped his arms around himself convulsively. Letting the book fall from his hands, Sam turned to face him, raising a hand to gently push the wet curls aside that lay plastered against his master’s cheek. 

“Here, Mr Frodo, you’re cold,” he whispered, tucking them back behind his ear.

As he did so, Frodo’s eyes flicked up to meet his, darting, dark and blue as twilight, sparking against Sam’s golden green. Lifting a hand, Frodo’s cool fingers drifted softly down Sam’s cheek. Shivering against the caress, Sam felt the quickening of his own breath and the singing of his flesh, warm and deep. 

“I never knew this room was here,” Sam said, looking around at the dazzling walls, covered in rich hangings embroidered with flying horses and dancing trees and elves - more beautiful and grave than anything that Sam had ever imagined. He had sank down into soft cushions and looked at the books and papers inscribed with histories - days upon days of an inner life - spoken only to parchment and pen. Unsure at first if he should touch them, he had hesitated until he saw the single volume open and outspread as if it desired his attention. To this he had turned and found such miracles within, he could barely believe his eyes. 

“It has always been here, Sam. I didn’t know until Bilbo showed it to me, the night before he went away. I could hardly believe that there could be so much beauty, and kept hidden from all eyes. I would come here from time to time and write, it seemed a safe place for secrets to thrive.”

“Until now…” Sam muttered, feeling a wave of disgrace washing over him at his own boldness. 

“Don’t you see, Sam?” Frodo said, lifting Sam’s chin with his fingers. “It was open to you. I offered it - to you.”

Sam blinked as the full weight of Frodo’s gift sank down on him like water. “Mr Frodo…” he began.

Frodo shook his head. “It’s all right, Sam.”

Sam closed his eyes slowly as Frodo leaned in and brushed his lips so lightly against his, it was little more than the softest of petals falling, but it made Sam burn so sweetly, he moaned aloud. 

“You may know this - and more…” Frodo whispered.

Sam lay back slowly, falling into wide, soft cushions, turning his face against the fruits and the flowers spilling over the embroidered silk, wondering if this, indeed, was the treasure at the heart of Bag End, that none would think to find. He looked up at Frodo, who sat gazing down on him as if he were something precious and rare. 

_“Frodo…”_ Sam whispered and held out his arms to draw him down. 

But Frodo sat still and waited, huge dark rimmed eyes unblinking. _“Sam…”_ he breathed. 

“Are you scared?” Sam asked, sitting up to run his fingers through Frodo’s curls, feeling how silken and soft they were against his hand. “You have nought to fear from me. Come, come here, me dear…lie down with me…”

“I’m scared for you, Sam,” he said quietly. “I’m scared of what I carry with me, always in my wake.”

“It don’t matter,” Sam said. “It’s all part of you - it’s you, me dear, it’s you I love…”

Frodo started a little and almost laughed. “You love me?” he said, disbelieving. 

Sam nodded and closed his eyes, the very air itself becoming fragile as glass and just as barbed.

“You love me, Sam?” Frodo lay down above Sam and held his body poised on his elbows as he looked down into Sam’s face. 

“I do,” Sam murmured, his body flooding with heat at such an intimacy. 

Frodo laughed lightly and brushed his lips against Sam’s once more, coolly, and then again, but stronger this time, his lips nudging Sam’s open a little, so that the next time they fell apart and welcomed the warm sweep of Frodo’s tongue dancing over his mouth. Groaning and aching, Sam pushed his hips up blindly as Frodo continued to kiss and search with ever deepening strokes of his tongue, caressing and then withdrawing until Sam was half mad with desire and fought against every wild surge of fire that threatened to consume him. 

There was danger in this night, after all, but he would willingly submit to it, body and soul. 

Frodo’s hands were tangled in Sam’s hair as his mouth possessed his and then, gasping, drew a hot trail of open mouthed kisses along his neck, into the curve of his throat, where he lingered, pulling and biting and then laving with his tongue, until Sam’s hands fisted in Frodo’s shirt and his legs drew up tight around him. 

“More, Sam? More?” Frodo whispered under his breath. 

Sam moaned deep in his throat as Frodo slowly unbuttoned Sam’s shirt, kissing and licking the skin exposed with each new twist. When he reached the buttons of Sam’s breeches, he paused and his eyes flicked upwards.

“Yes...” Sam grunted hoarsely, holding back a tide of senseless of words. 

Frodo slowly parted the soft linen and bared Sam to his eyes, looking, soundless and attentive, his eyes wide and thoughtful, his mouth rose-red and swollen with kisses, his black hair curling around the collar of his snow-white shirt. 

“Frodo?” Sam said, holding his staggering breath as he felt the warm regard of his love, already thickening and sweetening him without even a single touch.

Frodo lowered his head and swept his tongue across a shining white pearl, making Sam clench his hands and push one fist into his mouth to stifle a cry that seemed at odds with the joy leaping in his soul. 

“There,” Frodo said, breathing warm upon his straining flesh. “There.”

And Sam remembered the silken shirt and he reached to pull it from his lover’s form, but Frodo covered Sam’s hands and gentled him back against the cushions with sweet words, some of them in a language quite unknown. 

“You’ll undo all your careful stitches…” Frodo said, swiftly shaking the silk free of its top three buttons and sliding it off his head, revealing a body more of the air than the earth, the shirt falling to the floor where it lay like a shed skin. 

“You’re so beautiful…” Sam sighed, his eyes falling closed in bliss. 

Frodo smiled and sat back on his haunches. “You have enchanted me,” he said. 

Sam laughed and then fell back to staring at his master in mute adoration, utterly bewitched as he watched Frodo slowly unbuttoning his own breeches, his eyes boring into Sam’s as he uncovered himself inch by inch. 

“See? See how I’m enchanted?” he whispered, leaning to brush his lips softly against Sam’s. 

“I love you!” Sam gasped, biting down on Frodo’s lower lip and capturing it in his own mouth, making his master laugh breathlessly. 

“Sam…” Frodo whispered. “I used to imagine…this…” 

Dipping his hips slightly, he brushed himself lightly along Sam’s shuddering flesh, making Sam curse blindly. “Sorry, sir!” he stammered. 

_“Shhhh…”_ Frodo covered Sam’s lips and tilted his pelvis once more to bring their aching lengths together and this time he pushed down harder and fire burned within the carress, making Sam wriggle and bite on his lip to keep the hard words down. 

“And this…” Frodo sighed as he buried his fingers in Sam’s hair and rocked his hips once, twice and then, faltering, he gasped and threw back his head in ecstasy. “This!” he cried, “Oh, Sam…”

Sam grasped Frodo’s hips and steadied him as Frodo swayed a little and his arms trembled beneath him. 

“Am I dreamin’?” Sam hissed as he thrust his hips upwards and pulled his master close, his mouth roaming senselessly over the pale arch of Frodo’s throat as he bucked against him, eyes flickering closed. 

“Yes…” Frodo murmured, his hips jolting and swaying as Sam clutched and pushed and buried sobs against his master’s skin. 

“Say it, Sam,” Frodo gasped, holding him down suddenly, with one hand pressed flat against Sam’s heaving chest, which glistened now with a golden sheen. “Tell me - you love me - tell me…”

 _“I love you I love you I love you…”_ Sam breathed, waiting to be released. 

Frodo held steady a moment, as if he were waiting for a command, and then let go with a long cry, smothering Sam’s answering wail with a kiss as he began to thrust his hips. 

Sam bore the slow sweetness until the cries from Frodo’s open mouth became urgent and broken, and then he moved, sliding and slipping them both over, as their tongues curled and swayed, hands clenching, tugging, tearing, as their bodies arched and struggled to cleave together in reckless love. 

“Sam…” Frodo panted. “Sam, I love you, Sam, I love you…”

Sam frowned, nearly falling under the pleasure of those words, for it seemed to him there could be no greater blessing on all this earth than to hear such wishes fulfilled on a night of such dark. And suddenly he felt their seed swelling and bursting and spilling hot and bright at the very same moment, hurling them into a space of such profound joy, it seemed almost as if all life was breaking to a thousand pieces and shattering in shards.

~~~

As the candles guttered low and the room filled with shadows, Sam and Frodo dressed quietly and swiftly, for the chill from without was beginning to seep through the hangings and enter into the little chamber. 

Frodo watched as Sam buttoned up his thick shirt and pulled his braces over his shoulders.

“It’s settling down to sleep,” Frodo said, smiling softly. 

Sam looked up, puzzled, “Sorry, sir?”

“The room, it’s closing its eyes…” 

Sam didn’t reply, but followed his master out of the low door, looking back one last time as if he couldn’t quite believe his senses. The pale light from the open door shivered over a moonlit garden full of flowers and a beautiful elf maid dancing and then all was lost, for Frodo pulled fast the door and locked it with the little key. 

Walking Sam to the door, they stood a moment at the threshold and paused to look out onto a beautiful starlit night, bright with snow. 

“I found this,” Frodo said, turning to Sam and drawing from his pocket, the rose petal stained with blood. “I knew I’d find you here, it was as if you had left a mark in the snow for me to follow.”

Sam took the petal and held it in his hand, “Thank you, Mr Frodo,” he said. “Many blessings to you this Yule.”

“And to you,” Frodo responded, leaning forwards to brush a soft kiss against Sam’s startled lips.

“’Night, sir,” Sam whispered as, reluctantly, they broke apart. 

“Goodnight, Sam.” Frodo turned and took three steps backwards into the warmth of the smial. “Mind the skies…” he added.

“I don’t mind them!” Sam laughed as he turned and made the first mark upon the untouched snow. 

As he walked slowly down the hill under the soaring skies, his feet seemed barely to touch the cold snow, they felt so weightless and light. He remembered his own enchantment, and how long he had lived silent and sleeping, wrapping himself in roses, just waiting for a kiss to wake him, his life guarded on all sides by rules, as impenetrable and fierce as any forest. 

Looking up into the depthless dark, he felt a small tingle of fear, which gradually gave way to a shout of love, as he ran, hurtling down the hill, kicking up drifting clouds of powdery snow with his heels. 

_I’m flying!_ he cried, _I’m flying!_


End file.
